He held his thoughts deep
in the bottom of his pockets
but only just because
his wallet felt too thick
with currency from forest trees;
kept exclusively to himself,
reclusively...abandonly
to himself, for himself;
the type that Dickens would woo,
and in the imperious absence-
of the gift called human kindness.
And this be very sad,
though he knew nothing else,
he trusted not... any soul,
skeptical, and imprisoned
to the paranoid mind within-
himself, by himself, for himself,
bare of rosy heart-
in his private world of privilege;
that he, himself built-
with the cheapest fiber of greed
and other penurious means;
and he'll live and he'll die
with his treasure left behind,
and, no doubt, not a clue
why nobody came to pay
their respects over his casket,
which was paid for in advance,
in the event, the price of tin went up.
Respect must be earned,
Kindness, a given,
neither harvest greed.
©Frank James Ryan, Jr./FjR
MMXIX- All Rights Reserved
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